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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096811">On the Mend</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun'>honeybun</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo'>Sabo (Sabou)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Closure, Healing, Implied handjob, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Old Age, Post-War, Roma acknowledges Lovino, veraverse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:55:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29096811</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-WWII AU (Veraverse). When Roma was alive, he would chase Lovino away, too prideful to accept help until it was inevitably needed. Until it wasn’t asking quietly anymore, but a forceful need.</p><p>With Antonio it’s different, it always has been.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>On the Mend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is set after George deValier‘s ‚Besame Mucho‘ and ‚Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart‘</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The routine of it all might have chafed at him as a young man, but it doesn’t do that now, no. He supposes he’s always done it anyway, and with Antonio it’s different, it always has been.</p><p>There’s the socks that he’s left by the fire to warm, and then the shoes made to accommodate for Antonio’s slightly off stature due to his missing arm. He ties his laces and wraps a scarf around his neck. </p><p>With Roma it was different, struggle and simmering resentment. Loving and caring for Roma made him feel like he was somehow insulting him. He’d helped him, when he was an older man, body bowing to time. He’d helped him undress for his bath, water putting out mist into the cool air, leaving Roma to soak in peace. No words passed between them. </p><p>Lovino should have followed in his footsteps, he knows that’s what it is, Feliciano was a lost cause from the very beginning so he didn’t have to worry about Roma expecting the same from him. But Lovino couldn’t ever fill in the large shoes of Roma Vargas satisfactorily, usually falling short in some measure. </p><p>So for Roma it’s salt in the wound somehow, to be taken care of by his grandchild, the Lion of Isonzo with a nurse maid. </p><p>When it’s Antonio, he lets him wash his hair slowly, carefully, fingers scratching at his nape. At once intimate and platonic, and at others overwhelmingly close and erotic almost. Antonio likes that, that Lovino doesn’t see him as some burden, still, as a man. He’ll wash Antonio’s back and sometimes the hot huff of his breath warms the back of Antonio’s neck, Lovino’s hand dipping underneath the water to gently wash there too- but not washing for too long. </p><p>When Roma was alive, he would chase Lovino away, too prideful to accept help until it was inevitably needed. Until it wasn’t asking quietly anymore, but a forceful need. He would protest all the same, tutting over his shoulder or mumbling when Lovino would clean up the small cottage, like thanking him too, is somehow giving in. </p><p>Antonio would sit in the front room with a blanket over his legs by the fire, smiling apologetically when Lovino comes to sigh with increasing exasperation at Roma’s complaints. </p><p>He supposes for Roma, it’s an invasion of his pride, a private man with too much stock in an ageing idea of masculinity. Causing himself more pain, wounding himself every time Lovino comes to help. </p><p>It is much easier between them, Lovino gently asking if there’s any new pain, stroking over old scars and new bruises. Antonio will hum, playing a game of hot and cold until Lovino passes upon a new ache, both of them laying indulgently in their shared bed. </p><p>It’s less like there are any obstacles for Antonio, when Lovino defeats each and every one as if it’s his life’s purpose. Antonio doesn’t have to awkwardly dry his hair and feel the ache of over-stretching his remaining arm because Lovino will bustle in and do it for him, fingers combing through thick locks of brown curls happily. Antonio turns to press his face into the flat stretch of Lovino’s belly, covered in woollen clothing. </p><p>He never feels a chill, when Lovino keeps a good fire, and hangs up his night things by it to warm. Antonio enjoys the feeling of the warm cotton against his skin as Lovino and himself change for bed, their eyes catching. They’ll lie close and fingers will pull at buttons, hands dip into waist bands as their noses bump together, foreheads touching and hot breath mingling. </p><p>The difference between the two of them is that Antonio never feels bad - is never made to feel bad, made to feel like he’s depending too much. Lovino hasn’t ever given him such an impression. But with Roma, <em>well</em>, it’s like a black worm had wriggled into his ear and told him so, that old men should have the honour to just die rather than take out their old age on the young people around them. </p><p>Up until his death, he’s not sure whether Roma understands that isn’t the case.</p><p>On one winter morning, where there’s frost on the grass, but the sunlight is bright and blinding, Lovino goes to help Roma up, out of his bed. He takes over a bowl of water to wash his face in briefly, cloth dipping in. </p><p>‘I couldn’t have asked for a better grandson, a better son,’ Roma mutters then, quiet of the room enveloping them both. His arthritic hands clasp at his walking stick as Lovino gazes at him in disbelief. </p><p>Lovino nods, lets his hand rest ever so lightly on Roma’s, carefully squeeze. Then, when he turns to collect his clothes for today, he brushes away wetness travelling down his cheeks, tears that Roma might not see anymore, with his eyes as they are, but he’ll know they’re there by the tremor in his voice.</p>
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